Insipid
by MizJoely
Summary: At the St. Bart's Christmas party after Sherlock's return, Molly accidentally hears some harsh words about her and the world's only consulting detective...who takes it upon himself to set her straight when she wonders if they might be true. H/C in the emotional sense only. SHERLOLLY Now Complete!
1. Mean Girls

_A/N: OK, so this little story was inspired by an anonymous review I received for the story "Monkey Business" under my Sherlollipops catch-all. Now, keep in mind the title of the catch-all and the fact that "Monkey Business" was the SEVENTH story I'd posted when I received the review. The reviewer (again, note they remained anonymous), offered up this little gem: "This story could never happen because Molly is an insipid prig and Sherlock is most likely gay." Seriously, that was the review. I'm still chuckling over it, wondering what would possess someone with that opinion to even GLANCE at a posting called Sherlollipops in the first place, let alone apparently read all the way to the last story posted before deciding they had to post that particular review! Ah well. At least it inspired a story. An angsty three or four parter, of which this is the first. Enjoy! And if you don't, well, at least I'm warning you up front THIS IS A SHERLOLLY STORY FEATURING SHERLOCK AND MOLLY BECOMING ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED. Read no further if you don't like that kind of thing. :)_

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**Part 1: Mean Girls**

Department Christmas parties, Molly Hooper decided with a sigh, were among the most dreary occasions imaginable. Well, she thought as she looked around at the happy couples dancing together, the tables full of people laughing and chatting as she waited in line to refill her wineglass, maybe it wasn't all that dreary. Not for them, anyway, the lucky ones who were here with husbands and wives and dates and boyfriends...

_Molly Hooper,_ she silently scolded herself as she shuffled forward a few steps as the line moved,_ you stop that right this instant! You're here with good friends who are happy to be with you! Just because John and Mary are a couple and you and Sherlock aren't doesn't mean you have to spend the evening feeling sorry for yourself!_

And why was she? She'd long since given up any romantic hopes for Sherlock to want her as anything more than a friend, and told herself every day how lucky she was to have that much of him. She was in a very exclusive club, membership limited to his landlady, DI Lestrade, John Watson, and to a certain extent John's girlfriend, Mary Morstan, whom she had been lucky enough to call friend long before John and Mary had ever set eyes on one another.

It gave her a warm feeling to know that she'd been the catalyst to bring those two lonely souls together, but at the same time she couldn't help feeling sad for herself. "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride," she muttered as the line moved again.

"Problem, Molly?"

She jumped at the sound of the familiar baritone coming from just behind her, then turned to glare at Sherlock, who simply smirked down at her. God, he looked so perfect, dressed in a bespoke suit as always, hair and cheekbones and eyes..._Stop it! _she snapped at her inner teenager, the one that never would stop mooning over him. "N-no," she said aloud, giving Sherlock her widest, brightest smile. "Just...talking to myself." She forced a laugh. "Gets a bit boring, standing in a queue, even if there is a nice drinkie waiting at the end for me!"

She winced inwardly. God, she sounded like a complete idiot, but that was nothing new. At least post-Fall Sherlock was decent enough to simply roll his eyes and not immediately pounce with a cutting comment.

He'd been back nearly three months now, and the gossip and sensational headlines had finally died down. Well, for the most part. She herself was still privy to several attempts a week to try and pry some "insiders information" about Sherlock out of her, but it was down from several a day so that was an improvement. She wished she could just plow on and ignore the fuss the way Sherlock did, but no one did anything quite the way he did, certainly not boring old Molly Hooper.

"Molly, I do wish you'd stop doing that." Sherlock's irritated voice brought her back to the present with a jolt; what was he talking about now? Before she could ask, he continued: "Worrying about what others think of you is pointless; they'll think what they like regardless of the facts, I've told you that more than once. I do wish you'd at least make an effort to believe me."

She blushed and looked down at her shoes – plain black flats, since heels made her feel as if she were walking on stilts and about to fall over, no matter how low or high. "Oh, well, sorry, Sherlock," she finally said. "Not everyone can be as indifferent as you."

Oh, God, why had she said that in such a waspish tone? Who knew what he'd make out of that response? Stuttering out an excuse that she needed to use the ladies, she rushed away, all thoughts of refreshing her drink forgotten in the embarrassment of the moment. Why oh why couldn't she manage to talk to Sherlock like she did everyone else – without stuttering or making a complete ass of herself? Would he read her disappointment into being nothing more than his friend into those words? Had she accidentally given away her feelings, feelings she'd tried so hard to bury, to keep him from knowing about?

Well, that was a lost cause, she already knew that; Sherlock might not have caught onto her feelings for him until a certain Christmas three years gone, but he'd certainly understood after the fact. And she'd tried to soldier on, to gain perspective, to appreciate the friendship that was all he'd ever be able to feel for her, and look where all that effort landed her: exactly nowhere. Right back where she started.

She reached the ladies; finding the room empty, she splashed some cold water on her face, careful not to ruin the little makeup she was wearing in honor of the festive occasion, patted herself dry and made her way to the farthest stall in order to relieve herself, since she was here anyway and in no mood to rush back out again.

Of course the door wouldn't fully close, but she was already there and it would stay shut if she pushed her foot against it, so she shrugged and sat, wondering how she could avoid Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

It really shouldn't be that hard; he was only there because John had asked him to come, their first social outing since Sherlock's return and John's engagement; another chance for Mary and Sherlock to get to know one another – or at least, for Sherlock to start to become used to the idea that this girlfriend wasn't going anywhere any time soon. At least she was well able to stand up to Sherlock's needling; Molly knew he had a grudging respect for Mary based on that ability alone, and the fact that she'd kept John from completely falling apart while he thought his best friend was dead had not gone unnoticed, either.

Molly finished and flushed and prepared to exit the stall when of course her shoe got wedged under the full-length door, and of course it took her a second of hopping about to free it and get it back on her foot. The door had swung inward just a bit, effectively enclosing her in a triangle between it and the wall when she heard the main door to the ladies open.

She was about to leave, to just pull the door to the stall open and wash up when she heard her own name and found herself frozen in place.

"Why on Earth is he here with Molly Hooper? D'you think she's blackmailing him?"

That was Veronica Richards, a nurse Molly knew only casually. A tall, thin blonde with huge blue eyes and a figure that every straight male in the hospital lusted after. With a reputation as bitch on wheels, although Molly only rarely interacted with her.

"Who, Miss Mouse?" The second voice was full of scorn, and Molly knew it far too well. Shirene Mortimer, another pathologist. The two of them had started at St. Bart's together and had never really gotten on, mainly because the tall, well-built brunette was a lazy, bitchy whiner who took far too many smoke breaks and did her best to fob her work off onto others, Molly included. She'd only gotten worse since Molly's recent promotion to a senior position that the other woman clearly thought she herself deserved. Molly suspected her of being the one to start the rumor that Molly had only gotten the job because she was sleeping with Mike Stamford, a rumor the man himself had sternly quashed when it came to his attention.

"Don't be ridiculous," Shirene was saying to Veronica. From the sounds of it the two women were freshening their makeup in front of the mirrors. Molly remained frozen, unable to decide if she should just wait for them to leave or open the door and get the confrontation over with when Shirene added maliciously: "You can tell it's not a double date, no matter what fantasy Mousy's got in that stupid little head of hers. He couldn't look more bored if he tried. He's probably just here because John invited him." There was a definite smirk in her voice as she added: "What would he ever see in her?"

"Well, he does like to work with her more than any of the other pathologists," Veronica put in, with a hint of malice in her own syrupy sweet tones. It sounded like she was giving Shirene a bit of a jab there, in spite of supposedly being her friend. But Molly knew why it would hurt: Shirene had never made any secret of the fact that she would bed Sherlock in a heartbeat if he ever gave her more than the time of the day.

"Yeah, _work with_ being the operative words," Shirene shot back. "Not do anything else with."

"Maybe if she put some RHP in his coffee she could get him to shag her in the supply cupboard," Veronica added with a nasty laugh. "Be about the only way she'd ever get into his pants."

"Oh, please," Shirene scoffed. "She's an insipid prig and he's most likely gay, so I really don't see _that_ happening!"

She couldn't move. She could barely breathe. How could people be so cruel? Why hadn't she just come out of the stall as soon as she heard them talking, let them pretend they were "just joking" or (more likely) just smirk at her until she left? But no, she'd stayed and then she'd listened and oh God how was she going to face them without giving away the fact that she'd heard every awful word?

She couldn't leave now, even after hearing them finish up and leave, the loud sound of the music and merriment from the room beyond marking their exit before fading into a dull roar once again. She was shaking in a combination of humiliation and rage; was that what people really thought of her, of Sherlock?

That thought gave her pause. She'd never believed the rumors and innuendo about Sherlock and John's relationship; John was too clearly a lady's man for it to be believable. Besides, true or not, it wasn't anyone's business, not even hers...although she had to admit she'd wondered herself at times if that was the direction Sherlock's interests lay. Until that same horrid Christmas, of course, when he'd identified that woman – Irene Adler, she'd learned her name to be – by not her face. Even knowing how he'd originally seen her naked, thanks to John's blog, hadn't completely explained how Sherlock could have memorized her in such detail that one look was all it took for him to know her...

She gulped back a sudden sob; where had that come from? Why was she letting those two bitches get to her like this?

"Because they didn't say anything you weren't already thinking, Molly Hooper," she whispered to herself. She sank to her haunches, buried her face in her hands and wept.


	2. A Little Help From My Friends

Mary Morstan scanned the dance floor with a frown. Molly had gotten up to freshen her glass of wine more than fifteen minutes ago, and still wasn't back; where had she gone? No, no one had nabbed her for a dance, she wasn't standing in any of the clusters of people Mary could see, chatting with friends or coworkers. So where was she?

"She's gone to the ladies."

That was Sherlock, just returning to the table himself, bored expression on his face and two glasses of white wine in his hands. He deftly placed one on the table in front of his own seat, and the second in front of Molly's abandoned chair. "I took the liberty of refreshing her drink for her while she dashed off," he added, his voice neutral but something about his eyes caught Mary's attention as he added: "She suddenly decided she need to use the loo."

"She went to the ladies...by herself? What did you say to her?" Mary demanded just as John rejoined them, both hands laden with plates of food from the buffet. "You said something to upset her, didn't you."

Ever the peacemaker, John spoke up. "Maybe she just needed the ladies. Could be as simple as that."

He looked offended as Sherlock and Mary gave him equal disbelieving looks. "What?" he protested. "She could have just..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes a second time. "Really, John," he scoffed. "Since when does any woman attending a party ever go to the loo by herself? And for the record," he added with barely a breath, once again returning his attention to Mary, "I said nothing that could be taken as an insult, and certainly nothing meant to upset her. I merely told her not to worry about what others might think about her, to which she responded by pointing out that not everyone is as 'indifferent' as I am. Then she left."

To his credit, he looked genuinely puzzled, and if that was the actual gist of the conversation, then it wasn't something he'd said that upset Molly; it was something she thought she'd given away with her own choice of words. And Mary had a suspicion she knew exactly what that was.

"He's right, John. I'm going to go check on her," she announced, putting an end to the discussion. "I'll be right back," she added, mostly to John, offering him an apologetic smile and hurrying off.

No matter how hopeless Molly's feelings for Sherlock might be, Mary was still her friend. She knew Molly was working hard to stop wanting more from Sherlock than just friendship, had confided as much to her after the detective's return from the dead (and Molly, Mary knew, just _knew_, had something to do with that even though she'd never been able to pry so much as a hint out of her one way or another). So every time she said or did something that she felt pushed her a step backward on that self-assigned path, she beat herself up about it something fierce.

She cast her eye over the room as she made her way through the crowds of people, but there was no sign of a tiny little brunette in a cheerful red dress to be seen. Still in the ladies, then, no doubt castigating herself for what she no doubt saw as a slip of the tongue. One that Sherlock probably hadn't read any double meaning into, which meant Molly was upsetting herself for nothing.

Mary sighed. She really wished there was something she could do to help her friend, something more than just being a shoulder to cry on and a friendly ear to listen to, but what else was there? Sherlock Holmes might be a bit nicer to Molly than he had been before that awful day two years ago – another reason Mary suspected Molly had aided him in faking his death – but he was just as married to his work as he had been before, so even Mary's considerable matchmaking skills would have nothing to work with.

She pushed open the door to the ladies; it appeared to be empty, but a sound from the nearly-closed door to the farthest stall caught her attention. She walked up to it and tapped on it, calling softly: "Molly? Are you in there?"

The sound of a stifled sob was all she needed to hear; she pushed the door open as far as she could and squeezed into the stall, taking in the sight of her friend crouched on the floor in the corner and trying desperately to stop crying. "S-sorry, Mary, I'll be...just, just give me a few m-more minutes," she stuttered out, attempting a smile that just about broke the other woman's heart.

Without regard for her own, brand new black dress, Mary plopped down on the toilet and reached for Molly's hand. "Shh, it's all right," she said soothingly. "Sherlock doesn't even understand why you're upset, your secret's still safe, luv..."

She trailed off as Molly looked up at her, clearly confused by her friend's words. "Sherlock? What's he got to...oh, the thing I said in the bar queue," she added as realization dawned. She shook her head and offered Mary a watery smile. "No, it's not that."

"Tell me, please," Mary urged, but Molly just shook her head, tight-lipped.

"D'you think...could you call me a cab? I think I just want to go home, and my makeup's ruined and I don't want anyone to see me like this," was all she said.

Mary's own lips had settled into a grim line; whoever had hurt her friend like this – and somebody must have said something, it wasn't like Molly to just burst into tears for no reason – was going to get an earful as soon as Mary managed to pry the truth out of her friend. But all she said was, "Don't be ridiculous; you came with us and you'll leave with us."

They'd arrived in Mary's car, the three of them, and Sherlock had joined them after finishing up some business or other at NSY. He could either ride back with them or find his own way home later; Mary had no energy to spare for him at the moment, especially if it was true that he wasn't the cause of Molly's upset. She tugged at Molly's hand, urging her to her feet. "Come on, we'll get your face sorted and then John and I will take you back to your flat. Or," she added, as inspiration struck, "you can stay with us for the night. Toby will be fine until the morning, you've left him water and some kibble, yeah?"

"Yes, he'll be fine, but no, Mary, I couldn't impose," Molly tried to protest, but Mary was having none of it. She got her friend to her feet, and between them managed to repair the worst of the damage. Mary pulled Molly's hair out of the band holding it away from her face as extra camouflage, and the two of them left the safety of the ladies.

The hallway was empty, and there was a small alcove off of it. The thing that caught Mary's eye, however, was the fact that it held a padded bench half-hidden by some potted palms. Instead of returning to the main ballroom, Mary dragged Molly over and sat her on the bench.

"All right, Molls," she said in her strictest voice – and as a secondary school mathematics teacher she could manage a strict voice second only to, perhaps, a dominatrix – "spill. Now. Who said something and what did they say?"

**oOo**

Sherlock paused in the act of following Mary and Molly around the corner. It wasn't that he intended to eavesdrop on their conversation; he'd only entered the hall leading to the ladies and gents washrooms in order to ascertain Molly's current emotional state for himself. He still didn't believe anything he'd said could have possibly set her off, and once he'd repeated the conversation to John, his friend agreed.

His original intent had been the leave the wine at the table and immediately follow Molly – after having given her those ten minutes to compose herself – but seeing Mary had caused him to alter his plans. The two women had been friends for many years in spite the multitude of differences between them, not least of which were their professions. But they'd been roommates at uni and apparently that had formed an unbreakable, lifelong bond.

Mary had been living in New Zealand ever since attaining her degree, and upon her return to England six months after his 'death,' Molly had introduced her to John. The two of them had immediately formed a mutual attraction, and now they were not only living together but if he were reading the signs correctly, about to embark on matrimony.

All of which was completely irrelevant to the matter at hand: to whit, Molly's emotional equilibrium. Yes, she'd been upset enough to take herself off to the ladies, abandoning her quest for a second glass of wine, but nothing that had passed between them – even if she were, as John suggested, as upset with herself as anything else – was bad enough to keep her away from their table for this long. Or to detain her and Mary in the ladies for an additional fifteen minutes.

Something must have happened in the interim, and the best way for him to find out was to stand around the corner and listen in on Molly and Mary's private conversation. Yes, if he were caught he would no doubt catch merry hell, but he was prepared to face the consequences if it meant he gained an understanding as to what had hurt his pathologist so badly.

Leaning casually against the wall so that any passer's by would assume he was waiting for someone to rejoin him after a sojourn in the ladies', he cocked his ear and listened intently to the low-voiced conversation between the two women.

"Come on, Molls, tell," Mary coaxed. "I can't let you just go off in a cab when you're so upset! You already said it wasn't Sherlock, so something must have happened after...where? On the way to the ladies?"

Molly made no response that Sherlock could hear, but must have shaken her head 'no' as Mary persisted: "Then in the ladies'?" He heard her breath catch and tensed; it seemed she had either remembered or realized something. "That bitch Shirene, her and that bleached blonde bimbo nurse buddy of hers, they were coming back to their table when I went looking for you. It was them, wasn't it? One of them said something to you!"

Molly said something inaudible in response; damn her tendency to speak in a low voice even under ideal circumstances! Fortunately for him Mary was much more used to having to speak over rowdy students, thus her attempts at sotto voce generally wound up closer to stage whispers.

"Those bitches!" Sherlock found himself wincing a bit at Mary's angry exclamation, which was rapidly followed by a string of profanities her students would no doubt be fascinated to discover their teacher knew. "Who the hell do they think they are, talking about you and Sherlock like that?"

Talking about...ah. Molly was upset because someone had spoken ill of him as well as saying something hurtful about her, which explained why she was so upset she wanted to go home. He wished she could just do as he'd advised her so many times, tonight included: stop worrying about what others thought or said about her – and especially about him. If it didn't bother him, why did she allow it to bother her?

However, when he heard Mary repeat, in a disbelieving tone of voice, the things Molly's coworker and her so-called 'friend' had so spitefully said in the ladies, he understood, far better than he'd expected, why their words had cut Molly up so badly.

They weren't just insulting her and dashing her hopes – hopes she'd been struggling to suppress for far too long for him not to have noticed – but also putting into words things she had always believed were, if not true, then at least possible.

That deduction was verified when he finally heard Molly, speaking clearly, loudly – and quite angrily. "Even if he is gay, it's none of their business! And it's not, it's not a – a reason to, to make f-fun of him!"

He felt a cold fury wash over him. 'Shirene' could only be Shirene Mortimer, one of Molly's fellow pathologists. The identity of the 'bleached blonde bimbo' could be easily ascertained by an examination of the table at which Shirene was seated. And once he had that information...They would certainly be made to regret bringing Molly back to the stammering mess she'd been when he first met her five years ago. She'd overcome her tendency to stutter after helping him fake his suicide, and he was a bit taken aback at his own anger at her being reduced to such a state by some idiots who didn't know what they were talking about.

Mary was making soothing noises, and the sounds coming from Molly indicated that tears were once again flowing. "Molly, you're not an insipid prig," he heard Mary say in a loud, firm voice. "No one thinks that – no one who knows you, certainly no one who matters. Which Shirene Mortimer and Veronica Richards certainly do not. I hope someone finds a way to get back at them for being such harpies."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised; those words were spoken a bit more loudly, loud enough to carry around the corner – and were clearly directed at him. He'd been found out, but Mary was using his presence to her advantage – and, more importantly, to Molly's. With a mental tip of the hat to the woman he was now assured was the future Mrs. John Watson, he slipped away.

There were a certain pair of women who were about to discover they'd insulted the wrong pathologist.


	3. Let The Games Begin

_A/N: One, possibly two chapters after this - and sorry, folks, I've downgraded from "M" to "T" cause this little ball of fluff ends before anything exciting might happen. But I hope everyone will be satisfied anyway. Thanks for reading and for all the lovely reviews! Oh, and FULL CREDIT for this chapter and the follow-up goes to Nocturnias, for her lovely efforts to unstick my imagination and put this story where it needed to be! Thanks!_

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Mary coaxed Molly out of the alcove and back into the ladies to fuss with her hair and makeup a bit more (and to give Sherlock time to do something – and if he didn't take advantage of what she'd ordered him to do she would hit him with her purse the next time she saw him, so help her God). She'd managed to convince Molly it was best not to leave just yet, that she should at least try to make it appear that she hadn't overheard that hurtful conversation. Otherwise Shirene and her crony might put two and two together and gloat over the fact that they'd driven her away from the party early.

Her real reason for convincing Molly to stay, of course, was her faith that Sherlock, who'd been so shamelessly eavesdropping on their private conversation, would take the bloody hint and _do_ something about those two big-mouthed bitches.

Once she'd helped to get Molly's makeup into some kind of shape, she further convinced her friend to take down her hair entirely – thank God she'd brought her clutch with her and had had the foresight to bring a brush and comb along with lipstick and all the rest. Honestly, Molly looked much prettier with her hair down anyway. Oh, Mary understood the necessity of keeping it up when you were elbow deep in corpses all day, but this was a party, after all.

Besides, Mary had overheard a certain consulting detective one time admitting to John when he thought she was asleep on the sofa (and with her head comfortably ensconced on John's lap, she'd almost achieved that state) that Molly looked 'reasonably attractive' with her hair loose.

She'd taken the comment as a simple aesthetic opinion at the time, but found herself wondering if she should have read more into it than she had. Sherlock's eavesdropping could be construed as simple concern for a friend, but that something in his expression at the table had Mary reassessing her thoughts on his feelings for Molly.

Maybe it was a good thing she didn't spend a lot of time urging Molly to get over him after all.

**centeroOocenter**

Sherlock paused before entering the main banquet area of the venue, scanning the crowd for a particular pair of brunette and brassy (entirely bleached) blonde heads…Ah. There they were, not too far from the dance floor. Perfect. If Mary did as he anticipated and managed to convince Molly not to simply rush off, then he could kill the proverbial two birds with one stone: put her tormentors firmly in their places, and confess his real reason for attending this insipid – no, wrong, never, _ever_ use that word again, even in his own mind – i_boringi_ (much more accurate, at least before all this nonsense started) party.

He stood very straight, setting the scenario he'd envisioned firmly in his mind, then allowed his expression to become less controlled, more fretful and anxious, and his body language followed as he hurried into the ballroom, making sure to scan the crowd as if looking for a particular person. When he 'accidentally' bumped into the back of Shirene's chair, he managed a startled expression as his eyes met hers – which went from annoyed to interested as soon as she realized who it was that had made her spill her drink.

Too bad it only splashed across the table; he estimated the dry cleaning bill for her expensive designer frock to be quite high. Ah well. That would only be a petty little revenge, and what he had in mind was much, much sweeter. "Ah, Dr. Mortimer, my apologies," he said, lifting his eyes from hers and once again allowing his face to drop into fretful lines. "Have you seen Molly? I'm afraid I've lost track of her and I'm beginning to be a bit worried. I went to fetch her a glass of wine, but when I got to the table John said she'd gone off to chat with a couple of mates…naturally I thought of you." He looked back down at her and mustered his sincerest, most charming expression of simpering sincerity. "I have to say, I've finally come round to sharing Molly's opinion of your work. You do appear to be far less incompetent than the rest of the morons you two work with."

That statement was entirely true, although he could tell by Shirene's smirk that she took it as the compliment it certainly was never intended to be. He restrained his urge to smirk right back at her, instead mellowing his expression into something she would no doubt interpret as interest as he examined her low-cut – and far too tightly fitted – deep green dress. "I'm sure Molly is just fine, Sherlock – may I call you Sherlock?" Shirene interrupted herself to ask, her voice a velvety purr. The sound of a would-be predator who believed she had easy prey within her reach. "Mr. Holmes sounds far too formal, especially for a party! And please, do call me Shirene," she added with a flutter of her (artificially lengthened) eyelashes.

He gave her a courteous nod and another false smile, inwardly grimacing at the sound of his name coming from her too-red lips. She darted her tongue out to lick the corner of her mouth, and he made sure to let his glance linger there before 'self-consciously' raising his eyes to meet hers, being sure to wear an embarrassed little smile as he did so. "I'm sure Molly will be just fine, she probably went to the ladies to powder her nose," Shirene said as her smile deepened into something triumphant, want darkening her deep green eyes (well, as best it could manage considering the obvious fact that she was wearing a pair of colored contact lenses). She flicked a glance over at her so-called friend, no doubt attempting to communicate to the other woman her desire to be alone with Sherlock.

Nurse Richards, however, as he noted with inward amusement, seemed intent on ignoring the other woman's silent request, going so far as to deliberately rest her elbows on the table before taking a long sip from her glass of wine. "We haven't seen Molly for some time, Mr. Holmes," she said, no doubt deliberately using his last name as some kind of obscure taunt, if her emphasis on his title was any indication. "Could she be dancing with someone, do you think?" She fluttered her eyelashes outrageously, and he gave an inward sigh of impatience; not another woman who thought he could be so easily swayed by her so-called 'feminine charms'?

Still, it could be used to his advantage if he played it just right. He mentally adjusted his plans, then gave her a dazzling smile. "Of course, the dance floor, that never occurred to me!"

He left it to their miniscule combined imaginations as to why such a thought might not have occurred to him – no doubt they would believe it was because even he couldn't possibly imagine that someone would ask Molly to dance – and took the seat Veronica offered him, between the two women.

He felt Shirene's glare as he turned his attention to the blonde (really, why didn't she realize how absolutely wrong that shade was for her skin tone, surely her natural dark brown was more flattering) now sitting on his left, accepting her offer of a sip of wine from her glass (opposite her lipstick marks, of course). He barely let the liquid touch his lips but it seemed to be enough for her to pass a triumphant smirk to Shirene that Veronica believed him not to have noticed as he pretended to ogle her artificially enhanced cleavage. "That's quite a, um, lovely dress," he said, drawing upon his memories of Molly's (thankfully mostly corrected) inability to speak to him without stuttering, as well as some of John's clumsier attempts to chat up women he deemed attractive. He tore his eyes away from her 'dress' with feigned reluctance and started to turn back to Shirene when movement across the room caught his attention.

Good. Molly and Mary had finally emerged, and he could end this tedious pretence at flirtation.


	4. Execution

_A/N: Many, many thanks to Nocturnias for hand-holding and general supportiveness as this story baked through my brain. I went back and tidied up a few "uh-ohs" in the previous chapters (Molly's hair and makeup got fixed TWICE! Whoops!). There should be one more chapter after this, entitled "Payoff". Enjoy, and as always, thanks for the many lovely reviews!_

* * *

After Mary and Molly reemerged from the ladies, they made their way back to the table where John was still waiting – alone, Mary noted gleefully, careful to keep her expression caring and concerned. Since Molly's eyes were lowered to the floor – her face half-hidden by her hair so that her peripheral vision was no doubt compromised, all to the good – Mary carefully scanned the crowd, looking for a particular head of dark curls…aha! There, sitting…

She paused. Sitting between the very women whose hair she most wanted to rip out by the roots at the moment. What the hell was he up to? Had he not gotten her very pointed message…

Her lips curled up in a smile as she saw him turning to give Veronica his biggest, fakest smile before lowering his eyes to ogle her (fake, so freaking FAKE) tits. So that was his plan, was it? Her grin widened as she subtly began to steer the oblivious Molly in that direction, taking a path that would allow Sherlock to see them and do whatever it was he was going to do to make this right for Molly.

**oOo**

Sherlock kept a weather eye on Molly and Mary, noting with a bit of lurch to his heart that Molly had undone her hair and was now wearing it in loose waves that tumbled down her back and shoulders in a way he most definitely approved of. Chastising himself for his momentary loss of focus (really, though, her hair was lovely, he'd always thought so and whenever she wore it down it emphasized her delicate features and pale skin and he REALLY needed to focus, dammit), he continued to laugh at whatever inane thing the Mortimer woman was saying, while at the same time continuously darting his eyes toward Nurse Richards' cleavage every chance he could get. He could see the storm brewing in the brunette's eyes and inwardly chortled.

Then Mary and Molly were brushing past the table, Molly's head down as she focused on the floor and undoubtedly feeling as miserable as her body language showed, and his fury nearly boiled over into cutting words and devastating deductions…but he held back.

That wasn't the plan.

This, however, was…He abruptly rose to his feet, his entire focus on Molly, knowing his body radiated an eagerness and energy that hadn't been there before. Even dullards like Mortimer and Richards should be able to observe something that obvious. "Molly!" he called out, making sure to sound as joyful as he could – knowing that it was an expression of his actual feelings certainly helped with its authenticity. "There you are, I've been looking for you!"

Mary shot him a nasty look as she eyed the company he'd been keeping, but he knew that she knew why he was there, and approved her obvious disapproval.

Ignoring the two women he'd practically been fawning over only moments earlier, he kicked aside his chair and rushed over to take Molly's hands in his. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, taking advantage of their closeness to murmur: "Molly, I'll explain, I promise, but for now just go along with me, please?"

She gave him a startled look, but it was immediately followed by a tiny nod as she raised her head and offered him a bright smile. "Sherlock! Sorry, Mary and I were in the loo, fixing our hair and makeup."

He offered her an admiring look that was in no way an act as he said: "Your hair looks much lovelier when you wear it down, Molly. But you know how much I like it that way."

Molly blushed and stared at him, completely at a loss for words if the evidence was to be believed. Good. This part of the plan didn't require her to speak, just listen.

As he'd anticipated, Shirene had risen to her feet, unwilling to just be abandoned…and undoubtedly eager to dig her claws in a bit more now that she erroneously believed Sherlock was interested in her questionable charms. "Molly, your eyes are red, poor dear," she said in falsely sympathetic tones. "You might want to splash some more water on your face." She glanced down at the other woman's dress. "Oh, maybe it's just that color, it does wash you out a bit. Sorry!" She pasted an insincere smile on her lips and turned back to Sherlock, placing a propriety hand on his arm. "Mystery solved, Sherlock, Molly's safe and sound with her friend," she flicked a hostile but ultimately dismissive glance over Mary's figure, "so why don't you sit back down with us? You can finish telling Veronica and I about that fascinating case we were discussing."

The look Sherlock bestowed upon her was pure frost. He glanced down at the hand she'd laid on his arm, which she removed as if he'd suddenly turned white hot, then back at her face. "No, I don't think so," he said, his tone as cold and dismissive as it had ever been. "I was simply passing the time while I waited for Molly to reappear, and you and Nurse Richards were at least decorative to look at while I did so."

Then he deliberately stepped away from her, still holding Molly's hands, actively dismissing the other woman and her dumbfounded 'friend' as he smiled at Mary. "You don't mind if I steal her away for a dance, do you, Mary? John must be missing you by now, nearly as much as I was missing my Molly."

Mary, as quick on the uptake as she'd been all night – yes, definitely destined to be Mrs. John Watson within a year, less if they decided to elope – gave him a cheerful smile in response, also ignoring the gaping woman who'd stumbled back a step as if his words had been physical missiles aimed at her feet. "Of course, Sherlock, any time! Goodness, you two danced so much the last time we were out together I was surprised you waited this long to ask her!" She made shooing motions with her hands. "Have fun you two!" Then she turned and headed back to their own table, still ignoring the other woman, who was visibly fuming.

"Sherlock!" Shirene's shrill voice cut through the ambient noise, even silencing the people at the nearest table and the friends who were standing next to it, drawing everyone's attention. Mary paused and looked over at her, as did Sherlock and Molly. The other pathologist looked furious, red-faced, fists clenched by her sides. Veronica Richards had risen to her feet and hurried over by her side, was murmuring something in her friend's ear and tugging at her arm, but she shrugged her off, her eyes zeroing in on Sherlock. "What the fuck do you think you're playing at?"

He could hardly contain his glee; really? She was actually going to confront him about his admittedly caddish behavior? It was too good to be true!

Maintaining a bored expression, he met her gaze squarely. "Honestly, Dr. Mortimer, I have no idea what you're whinging about. You've been attempting to gain my exclusive attention ever since our first meeting, and when I finally felt bored enough to indulge you, you act as if I've insulted you somehow!" He cast his glance over at Nurse Richards. "Even your so-called friend, the woman whose addiction to plastic surgery you've spent so much time spreading rumors about, understands that that was all the attention I was ever going to give you!" He rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently for added effect.

He turned his back again, but not before hearing a gasp from the blonde's lips. "That was you? You started those rumors?"

Ignoring the now-quarreling women, he placed his hand firmly at the small of Molly's back and escorted her onto the dance floor.


	5. Payoff

_A/N: So here it is, the final chapter, appropriately enough entitled "Payoff." Enjoy, and as always your reviews and follows and favorites are appreciated. And also as always, thanks to Nocturnias for her general cheerleading and helping me figure out Sherlock's Revenge in the previous chapter. :)_

* * *

"So I guess you, um, know what happened. Earlier. In the ladies."

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, not surprised that she had figured out the more obvious motive he had for staging that delightful little interlude with her two co-workers. He offered a careless shrug, as if it was of no matter and held her hand a bit more firmly in his when she seemed about to move away from him. "If it hadn't been tonight it would have been another night, Molly. Dr. Mortimer has been quite vocal about her belief that you 'stole' her promotion from her."

She dipped her head down in what might have been a nod if she'd looked back up again, and Sherlock frowned. His intention wasn't to make Molly uncomfortable; on the contrary, he'd rather hoped for an expression of appreciation from her that he could brush off – and then offer his own in its stead, for defending him.

Molly, however, did not seem to want to go along with his plan. As she finally raised her head and met his eyes, she gave a sad little smile and immediately ducked her head down again, mumbling: "You don't have to dance with me any longer, Sherlock. They're still arguing and wouldn't notice us if we were dancing naked."

She gasped, her eyes flying up to meet his as red suffused her cheeks in a very becoming manner. As she started to stammer out a retraction, he smirked down at her. The arm around her waist tightened a bit and he pulled her closer in his embrace. Lowering his head in order to murmur more intimately into her ear, he said: "And what if I asked you to dance because I wanted to dance with you, Molly, and not just to tweak those two?"

At those words, Molly, who had begun to relax in his embrace, stiffened and pulled herself out of his arms, eyes wide and cheeks once again red – this time, however, with anger rather than embarrassment. "Sherlock," she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes darting around as if to make sure none of the other couples on the dance floor were listening, "that's just – that's almost as cruel as what Shirene and Veronica just put me through! You promised you wouldn't…I thought we were friends, you know you don't have fake flirt with me to get me to..."

She broke off as if unsure what she wanted to say – which made sense to Sherlock, as he had no idea what she was going on about. Before he could say anything to defend himself (he hadn't been 'fake flirting', surely she could tell the difference by now?), she turned and made her way to the edge of the dance floor, clearly in full flight mode.

No, wrong. This was not how this scene was supposed to play out. He chased after her, cursing when he got caught between a couple that had spun away from one another and chose that unfortunate moment to come back together.

By the time he'd disentangled himself from the pair of them, Molly had vanished.

**oOo**

John and Mary were engaged in a very flirtatious conversation when Sherlock reached the table. They'd been leaning in for a kiss and separated with equally startled expressions when he slammed his hand down between them. "Have you seen Molly? Did she come by here?"

He looked and sounded as upset as John had ever seen or heard him. He glanced at Mary with a frown; now what had gone wrong? She'd filled him in on the details he alone had apparently not been privy to, of the four of them, but the last thing she'd assured him was that Sherlock and Molly were off to the dance floor and that things were looking quite, quite good between them. He groaned inwardly as Sherlock's eyes darted around the crowded room, clearing looking for Molly. "Christ, Sherlock, what did you do now? I thought you wanted to fix things up, not make them worse! And no," he added in belated response to his agitated friend's question, "Molly hasn't been by."

"She's left." It was a statement, not a question as Sherlock's gaze finally settled back on the table. "Her wrap is missing as well as her purse. Clearly she did come by and grab her things while you two were otherwise occupied." His lip curled in a familiar sneer, but he immediately spoiled the effect he was clearly going for as he raked his fingers through his hair, a lost expression covering his face. "I should go after her."

That was less of a statement than a question, but Mary beat John to the punch by saying: "Yes, of course you should, you git! And whatever it is you did this time, you'd best apologize to her properly!"

They watched as Sherlock grabbed his coat and rushed off without another word. John and Mary exchanged glances, then conspiratorial grins; this time, they both silently agreed, Sherlock wouldn't fuck it up. "Miss Morstan, our friends appear to have deserted us for the evening," John said after a moment.

"Why Dr. Watson, I do believe you're right," Mary agreed, glancing over at where her purse rested on the white tablecloth. "Would you like to stay or perhaps you're as tired – " She gave an exaggerated yawn and stretch, showing off her cleavage to advantage "—as I am?"

John's breathing was noticeably faster as he bobbed his head in agreement. "Why yes, Miss Morstan, I do believe I'm ready for bed. Nothing wrong with making an early night of it." Then he leaned forward and kissed her, a fervent kiss that said more than words exactly how eager he was to get her back to their small house on the outskirts of London – and shag her silly.

Which, as it happened, was exactly what she had in mind. With a wicked grin, she stood up and grabbed her belongings. "Let's go, Dr. Watson. I'm feeling in need of a thorough examination before bed tonight. Just in case I'm coming down with something."

Then she kissed him, quite thoroughly, and led him away, the pair of them grinning like idiots the entire way home.

**oOo**

She was home, safely barricaded away from the outside world. When would she learn? Sherlock had been right, all those years ago, when he'd warned her about dating. She was shit at it, no question about it. Not that tonight had been a date, of course; it had just been two people who happened to be at the same place at the same humiliating time. With another couple who actually were on a date, just to rub it in.

Molly rushed into the bathroom, bent on scrubbing the stupid makeup from her face and getting herself out of the rubbish dress she'd bought to impress...who? Sherlock? The man who'd once again unintentionally but thoroughly stomped on her heart?

"Molly Hooper, you are a complete idiot," she said to herself as she furiously yanked at the zipper to her red dress, the one that was supposed to make her feel pretty and confident and not like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes.

"You're not an idiot."

Molly screamed and spun around at the sound of that unexpected voice coming from the bathroom door, reflexively hurling the first thing her fingers clutched at the intruder – a hairbrush.

"Ow! Molly! Stop, it's me!"

Sherlock. Her eyes and ears finally registered that the invader was Sherlock. What the hell was he doing in her flat...how had he gotten in, why was he here?

She glared at him, panting with a combination of fear and adrenalin alongside a healthy dose of anger as she screeched her questions aloud.

He'd ducked the hairbrush but she caught him squarely on the shoulder as she hurled the plastic pump jar of liquid soap at him when he didn't answer her right away. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she said again, her voice a bit more under control.

Before he could answer there came an almighty pounding on her front door. "Molly! Are you all right? Shall I dial 999 for you?"

It was her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Linderman, and she gave Sherlock another glare as she shoved past him and stomped to her door. "I'm all right," she reassured the older woman – and inveterate busybody. At least Molly could be comforted in knowing that if she ever were assaulted in her flat for real, the other woman would hear every shout. "It's just...Toby," she finished lamely, not wanting to explain that she had a man in her flat.

Not that there was any reason for her not to have a man in her flat, but Mrs. Linderman would spread the gossip and then Molly would have to contend with well-meaning congratulations from the others in the building about her new boyfriend. And there was nothing more humiliating than explaining that no, she didn't actually have a new boyfriend.

After several more reassurances through the door – Molly had no intention of opening with her dress half off and what remained of her makeup a smeared mess on her face – and her neighbor had made her reluctant good-byes, she turned back to Sherlock, who had moved silently into her small sitting room and was just standing there, looking at her.

Sheepish, she'd call his expression if he were anyone other than the great prat who'd just picked her locks and snuck into her flat without so much as a text message to warn her he was coming.

She was about to demand, yet again, that he explain himself when he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile, holding it toward her as if expecting her to take it from him. "What's this?" she asked suspiciously.

He gave her an impatient look. "It's my mobile, Molly. Obviously. Now take it and call John."

Molly crossed her arms across her chest and frowned at him. "If this is about a case, Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood..."

"It's not about a case," he interrupted her before she could work up to an angry rant. He stepped forward, somewhat cautiously, and his expression softened once again into something almost...beseeching. He gestured with the phone once more as he stopped a few feet away from her. "Please. Just call John."

He stepped closer to her with those words, invading her personal space in that way he did that set everyone off balance for different reasons. She was sure her cheeks were burning as she stared up at him – but no longer with anger. "Call John," he repeated, once again holding out his mobile, his eyes burning into hers, body fairly vibrating with...what? Energy? Impatience? She couldn't tell. "Call him, and ask him why I allowed myself to be dragged to that dreary party. I want you to hear it from his mouth, because I doubt you'll believe me if I tell you myself."

She thought about protesting further, then decided she could be quicker rid of him if she just gave in and did as he asked, no matter how cryptic he was being. After the night she'd had, she just wasn't in the mood. Why wouldn't he just say whatever it was he'd come here to say and leave? As if this night hadn't been enough of an emotional roller-coaster...With a sigh, she accepted the phone and dialed John's mobile.

"Hullo, John? It's Molly...yes, he asked me to call you," she said, glancing up at Sherlock, knowing he could hear John almost as clearly as she could. At least he'd taken a few steps back, folding his arms across his chest and watching impassively as she spoke to his former flat-mate. "He asked me to ask you why he agreed to come to the party tonight."

"Tell him to tell you the truth," Sherlock put in suddenly, for the first time looking almost as discomfited as Molly felt. "Not the rubbish excuse I told him to tell you, either."

"You heard that? O-okay, then. Why did he..." Molly fell silent as she listened to John, darting disbelieving glances up at Sherlock as she listened. "Are you sure? Really? Well, um, thanks, John. Tell Mary I said good-night and thank you again for all her help, will you?" Another pause and another glance at Sherlock. "Yes, I'll tell him. Good-bye!"

She pressed the button to end the call and handed the mobile back to Sherlock. "He said you'd better not be giving me a hard time – but the other thing, what he said...you told him to say it. Didn't you?"

Sherlock's expression could best be described as disdainful. "I can assure you, Molly, John will do a lot of things for me, up to and including both taking a bullet and putting one into another person's head, but he will never lie to a woman for me. Especially not you."

Molly felt the overwhelming urge to sit, and so she did, groping for the nearest chair and dropping into it heavily. "O-okay, then," she said, somewhat at a loss for words. Not an unusual circumstance where Sherlock was involved, but this time was something so very, very different than anything she could have imagined it was going to take her some time to gather her thoughts.

Sherlock, it would appear, expected just such a reaction, since he turned, removed his jacket, and hung it on the hook next to hers. He then proceeded into her tiny kitchen, where she heard him rustling through her cabinets and making noises that sounded very much like he was putting on the kettle for tea.

That jolted her out of her temporary paralysis; it was so normal, so much a part of the routine into which they'd fallen when he'd been hiding out in her flat in the first few weeks after his fake suicide, that she found the energy to rise from her chair and follow him into the kitchen.

She leaned against the doorjamb and just watched him puttering about, completely at home, and for the first time since she'd entered the ladies' at the party, felt a genuine smile blooming on her lips. "So, if John isn't lying, then the reason you came to the party was because of me? Because you wanted to, to spend time with me?" God, she hated how she stuttered around him even now when they'd become friends, but it always came back whenever she got emotional. And if what John had told her was true, well, then she was about to get very, very emotional.

And if Sherlock didn't like it, too bad. Because it was all his fault.

He'd hunched his shoulders a bit as she spoke, then straightened them and turned to look at her. "Yes."

Just one word, so simple, so straightforward and honest...so utterly life-changing.

"And when you did what you did to Shirene and Veronica, that wasn't just to show off how clever you are? You were...defending me?"

A nod. "They'd upset you with their idiotic opinions of us. If you're expecting me to apologize to them..."

Molly shook her head and took a few steps into the kitchen. "No. They deserved it, even if they didn't know I was listening to them in the ladies. Which I shouldn't have been," another couple of steps, "because eavesdropping is rude."

Sherlock reached behind him with one hand and shut off the kettle, which hadn't even begun to boil, then he, too, took two steps forward, until he was once again deep inside Molly's personal space.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough (if she were daring and brave) to kiss.

Luckily for her lips, tonight just happened to be the night that she decided to feel daring and brave. Especially after the emotional upsets at the party. She hadn't felt daring and brave since she'd helped Sherlock fake his death, and she had to admit that she'd missed feeling that way.

Luckily for her, Sherlock seemed inclined to return her kiss.

When the kiss ended – breathing, after all, being a necessity from time to time – Molly found herself gazing up at him in some bemusement. "Tell me," she half-asked, her hands resting on his chest (when had they settled there, should she move them, no, leave them, be brave, Molly Hooper).

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, flicked his eyes to the side before once again meeting her gaze. "I suppose I've known all along," he finally admitted, his voice low and deep and meant for her ears only – no more interference from well-meaning neighbors, Molly thought with an internal (and only slightly hysterical) giggle. "All those times I deduced your dates and commented on your body and hair...even at that Christmas party, it wasn't actually because I was annoyed at John for having the party in the first place, it was because I was...well." He sucked in a breath, let it out, and lowered his eyes. "I suppose I was...jealous."

"Jealous," Molly repeated disbelievingly. "Of what?"

"Of whom," he corrected her, his hands moving from her hips to grasp her upper arms (oh, why hadn't she realized his hands were on her hips, what was _wrong_ with her?) and giving them a gentle squeeze. "I was jealous of whomever it was you were going to meet up with after the party, of course. Whoever it was you'd dressed up for and taken such care to wrap a present for."

She digested this confession for a long moment, fingers curling unconsciously into the silky fabric of Sherlock's dark grey dress shirt. Then she smiled, first to herself and then up at him. "What?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow toward his hairline.

"What, what?" she echoed and asked. "Can't you deduce me, Sherlock?"

Her response was a slow smile, a smoldering look of passion, and another kiss that left her even more breathless than the first one they'd shared.

As she felt Sherlock's fingers tugging her dresses' zip the rest of the way down her back, she reached for his buttons and began undoing them. This was real, this was happening, and not a moment too soon as far as she was concerned.

And when the two of them moved toward her bedroom, she smiled again as Sherlock leaned down to murmur in her ear: "You're far from an insipid prig, Molly, and I am most definitely _not_ gay."


End file.
